


The Third Kind

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Shapeshifting, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So you see too?" Jensen whispers again, peeping around the edge of the bedroom door. The thing has climbed out from under the bedclothes and sprawled out in a long slice of sunlight pouring through the window. He's almost sure it wasn't that big last night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Kind

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this a while back for the spn_in_space challenge on LJ but apparently never posted it here.
> 
> Now available in [Russian](http://www.crossroad-blues.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=84&t=7365&sid=cb5f5cd9ddd2cde98395230a5140d3dd)

So hey, Jensen's crazy. Awesome. He can't say he hadn't suspected as much, but he'd always kind of thought it was more the "he's so crazy" giggled over drinks kind of eccentric, not the "get the horse tranquilizers" kind of fucked-in-the-head nuts. But staring at the wet, scaly, scared looking thing sitting on his kitchen floor, there's not a lot of other explanations. Because there's a wet scaly scared looking _thing_ sitting on his kitchen floor and he's pretty sure that covers epically huge portions of the DSM criteria. The fact that he found the thing crawling in the kitchen window and let it finish doing so probably covers all of the rest of it.  
  
That might just be shock though. 'Cause, you know, wet, scaly, freaked out thing - kind of shocking. Shock is an entirely fair response.  
  
Jensen doesn't have any kind of formal training with animals, but he can say with a reasonable level of confidence that whatever it is leaving a puddle of rainwater from the storm raging outside on his imported Italian tile is definitely not something that occurs in nature. For starters, it's like, human-ish. And not like how monkeys are human-ish, like seriously human-ish.  
  
It's small, maybe tall enough to reach Jensen's waist if it were standing up, all bare bronzy tones, dips and angles in the right ways except that the tiny motions it keeps making suggest that it's got joints in all sorts of places Jensen doesn't. Big eyes stare up at him with pupils that are about twice as big as they should be, surrounded by colors that have got no business being in an eye in the first place - what in the hell has hot pink flecks in its eyes? Its features, too, are almost-not-quite human, everything in the right place but kind of blunted and soft like the first stage of a sculpture. Its mouth is just a slit cut through the bottom part of its face, a couple thousand tiny, pointy teeth showing in the space between.  
  
Fingers that aren't really - half again as long as they should be - splay out over the floor between what Jensen's going to generously consider its knees. The pads of them, when it shifts, peel away from smooth ceramic with a slight sucking noise like they're sticky or something, which Jensen's absolutely going to worry over some time in the near future. Some time when it's not starting to move toward him.  
  
He puts a hand up to his mouth as if that's going to hold back the hysterical sound bubbling in his chest and ends up losing it anyway when the thing nails-on-a-chalk-board hisses at him.  
  
Ok, well that didn't help with the freaking out at all.  
  
Shouting, "Ok, whoa, hey, whoa!" at it probably isn't the most helpful idea in the world either, but it is at least markedly better than throwing the dish towel at it. His mother might have a point about him needing a bodyguard.  
  
On the other hand, it totally stops on the spot at his shout to blinks at him. With at least two sets of eyelids. Oh God, what would he give to unsee that?  
  
The thing's attention is all on the dishtowel now, picking it up and turning it over - yes, those fingers are definitely sticky - carefully dabbing at its skin with it until it seems to determine it's safe and lays the cloth out on the floor to rub itself against.  
  
Apparently sufficiently dry to become bored with the dishtowel, it rolls back onto the balls of its feet, focus turned squarely on Jensen with a humming intensity. He's heard that dogs can smell when you're afraid of them but nobody ever said anything about scaly, lizard-fingered pseudo-primate creatures.  
  
"Hey there, little... guy," he goes for soothing and misses by a mile, stumbling over the noun since the downstairs situation is just kind of blank. Oh, fuck, no he did not just check out the thing's junk. He didn't. What the hell? "It's ok. Everything's fine."  
  
Saying 'please don't eat me' would be a bad plan, no point putting ideas in its head, but that doesn't make it any less of a struggle not to.  
  
Its head cocks to the side, a little too far as if its head isn't screwed on tight enough - it really needs to quit doing that shit - and lets out a tremulous metal-on-stone croon.  
  
And Jensen runs. Yeah, rugged and manly can fucking suck it, there's an unidentified _it_ in the middle of his fucking kitchen and he is not sticking around to find out how it feels about people. Unfortunately, making for the garage would involve actually getting around the thing, so instead he opts for hightailing it to his bedroom, locking the door and shoving every moveable piece of furniture against it, just in case the thing turns out to be stronger than it looks. Can't be too careful.  
  
***  
  
By the time morning prowls its way around the edge of the curtains, Jensen just about has himself convinced that it was all an elaborate hallucination. He's been under a lot of stress lately with the casting and contracts and all the PR. Having a multi-million dollar movie hinging on his acting ability is kind of intimidating, to say the least. A mild-to-moderate dissociative episode is an acceptable side-effect.  
  
Still, he's tentative when he moves all of his furniture back into place and opens the bedroom door.  
  
Nothing. No confusing nightmare creatures, no destroyed home, nothing. Even the dishtowel is back on its hook by the sink.  
  
He still carries around his nine-iron as he rushes through a quick clothes change for a breakfast meeting with his agent and prays that he can pull off that 'spent two hours to look like I just rolled out of bed' look without the actual two hours of prep.  
  
For all of .02 seconds, Jensen considers mentioning his 'episode' to someone but he's not really sure who to tell that he recently took a short detour off the deep end, and, ok, maybe he doesn't really want to have to deal with the added drama of reassuring anyone else that he's not on his way to a padded cell.  
  
In retrospect, that may have been the wrong choice.  
  
When he gets back early in the afternoon, the creature is huddled up in a nest of covers in the middle of his bed watching a Lifetime movie. Obviously Jensen's psychological issues go infinitely deeper than he'd originally guessed.  
  
Misha, being the awesome manager and best friend that he is, answers his cell on the first ring.  
  
"How is my favorite client?"  
  
This is the part where Jensen's supposed to remind him that he's Misha's only client and that he's the luckiest son of a bitch in the world that Jensen got stuck rooming with him freshman year at UT but he's kind of got other priorities right now. If there's anyone out there who's not going to call the nice men in white coats to come get Jensen over this shit, Misha's the guy.  
  
"I need you to come over," he says, quiet and tense. The thing on the bed pays him no mind.  
  
Misha's voice downshifts from casual to concerned without a second in between. "Are you ok?"  
  
"I-" he shoots a wary glance at the creature burrowed so deep into his down comforter that only its big - slightly greener today - eyes are visible where the TV reflects in them. "I have no idea."  
  
"Should I bring a tarp?" From anyone else it would be a joke, but honestly, Jensen has no trouble believing that Misha would help him hide a body if it came down to it.  
  
"Just get here."  
  
***  
  
"So you see too?" Jensen whispers again, peeping around the edge of the bedroom door. The thing has climbed out from under the bedclothes and sprawled out in a long slice of sunlight pouring through the window. He's almost sure it wasn't that big last night.  
  
"Yes." Misha nods, eyes still locked on the long stretch of terracotta scales spread out over Jensen's Egyptian cotton sheets. Maybe it had just been all the water, but he'd have sworn its surface wasn't light-sucking matte last night either.  
  
"Oh, thank God." That's probably not the right reaction, given the situation, but it's stunningly comforting to find out that he's not completely off his rocker. Instead he just has a horrifying mutant infestation. Why couldn't he just get a nice drug addiction or two-day marriage like all the other movie stars?  
  
The things stretches out, long and lean, the curve of its spine bridging off of the bed just a degree or two past what should be physically possible.  
  
"It's not an animal," Misha says, all the gravity of nuclear holocaust.  
  
"Nope," Jensen agrees. He's actually feeling much better about the situation now. Maybe the universe can only allow for so much panic in one place without imploding.  
  
"Do you remember that meteor shower last week?" Non-sequiters like that are probably the reason Misha doesn't have more clients. It’s only through years of practice that Jensen's developed the ability to go from conversational A to C.  
  
"You're going through another David Duchovny phase, aren't you?" Also, it's contagious. He suspects it may be a plot on Misha's part to prevent him from making new friends.  
  
" _The X Files_ was quality television programming."  
  
"It's not an alien."  
  
"You have no way of knowing that."  
  
"You have no way of knowing that it is."  
  
Misha crosses his arms over his chest. “They quarantined that meteor that hit out in the Hills. It’s not an animal, what else do suggest?”  
  
“You’re so nerdy it causes me physical pain.”  
  
“Like this?”  
  
Misha's fist slams into the meat of his shoulder, stupid, bony little knuckles digging into the meat. That’s definitely going to bruise.  
  
“You moth- Ah!” The scream Jensen lets out is not in any way girlish, but if it was, no one would be allowed to give him crap about it because the freaky mutant lizard thing that’s co-opted his home just rubbed itself against his leg.  
  
Jensen falls back into the hallway, pawing at the wall and sending a picture frame crashing before he finally bites the dust too. Oh God, he’s on the floor with it. Shit!  
  
A terrified glance tells him that it’s poised over his legs, hands and knees pressed to the hardwood as it does that weird head-cock thing at him and croons again. If Jensen weren’t so damn healthy and fit right now he would probably be having a heart attack and not even having to worry about the many horrible ways that thing could kill him.  
  
“It’s ok,” Misha says, catching its attention as he cautiously kneels down. Jensen always knew that man was deranged.  
  
He’s slowly reaching out a hand in the creature’s direction, just close enough that the tip of his finger brushes against what loosely passes for its shoulder. All three of them flinch at the moment of contact, Jensen’s heart doing the samba in his ribcage, Misha visibly sweating.  
  
The thing blinks at him – up this close, Jensen’s pretty sure its eyes are smaller today too, or maybe just covered by more of a normal eyelid – then over at Jensen, back again like it’s waiting for something or asking something or, hell, trying to decide which one of them would make the tastiest mid-day snack.  
  
Faster than either of them can react, it leans in and pushes its face against the palm of Misha’s hand. Because it’s this things mission in life to try to make Jensen piss himself every thirty seconds. But then it just… makes a noise, low and trilling, and sort of…  
  
Nuzzle. That’s the only word for it. It’s nuzzling Misha’s hand. Jensen really hopes that’s not some kind of weird play with your food instinct it has.  
  
“It’s fuzzy,” Misha comments after a minute that leaves Jensen’s chest burning when he completely forgets how to convert oxygen into CO2.  
  
“Dude, it has scales, it can’t be fuzzy,” is quite possibly the least coherent thing that Jensen has ever said – including that impromptu one act they put up Halloween night of junior year after Rosey showed up with that laced weed.  
  
“Because clearly it abides by normative Earth logic.” Misha raises an eyebrow at him, fingers slowly beginning to stroke at the thing’s head.  
  
***  
  
79 hours later, yes, Jensen’s counted, here’s what they know.  
  
1) Jensen’s not just imagining that it looks different – whatever it is, it changes, and fast. He’s never actually seen it happen, so either it is undergoing constant minute changes or else it waits until his back is turned to sneak it all in. Either way, Jensen will turn around one afternoon and suddenly discover it has developed eyelashes or cheekbones or freaking moles, because that makes sense.  
  
2) Everyone is going to have to take their coffee black because the thing has a major sweet tooth. It’s eaten every sugar packet and chugged every drop of honey Jensen had in the house. Misha keeps insisting that they should go buy some more but that would involve leaving one or the other of them alone with it and however friendly it might seem, Jensen is not taking that chance. And he is so not even considering leaving it alone in his home again. Who knows what it could do.  
  
3) They’re raising a tragic American stereotype because in addition to its sugar addiction, it has fallen in love with the TV. It’s relatively indiscriminate about what they watch as long as it’s not the news, it hates the news, but it seems to like Jensen’s movies, so he guesses that’s something. It also has a serious hard-on - not literally, thank God, Jensen is not prepared for it to start growing genetalia - for _My So-Called Life_ and Jared Leto's character in particular. Jensen's not really sure what the hell that says about its personality or taste level, but it does at least provide them with a handy nickname since calling it 'it' all the time offends Misha's sensibilities.  
  
4) No matter how smart it might be, they’re not going to be calling the feds. For starters, who the hell would believe them? And besides, as attached as Misha has gotten to it, he’d probably pull a full on _E.T._ and go biking off into the sky with it. Jensen puts nothing past Misha.  
  
At some point during the middle of the second day, it seems to have decided that scales are out and skin is in. He can still make out the very edges of the scalloped scales if he tries, but texturally, it's developed a velvety smoothness that's only weird because it feels so _normal_. It also apparently has determined that hair is particularly important and has developed a shaggy mop that Jensen has to admit makes it a lot less freaky to look at. It hasn’t escaped his notice that said hair is an auburn middle ground between his own and Misha’s the same way its eyes shift around between blue and green and brown, almost all of the other colors disappearing.  
  
It's also developing more of what could be called features, which are definitely modeled after a human being even if it doesn't exactly look like either of them. Which is freaky, but fine, he guesses, if anything about this _Twilight Zone_ mindfuck could be considered 'fine', except that it's not just facial features it's picking up. Which is what leads them to having this argument for the third time today.  
  
“You’re just jealous he likes me best,” Misha says nonsensically, fingers carding through the fluffy mess of hair-fur-whatever on its head. Freaking _petting_ it! It seems to be perfectly happy with the situation. In fact, it seems to be kind of a whore for physical affection.  
  
“It does not.” Not that Jensen cares whether the mutant - he is not calling it a freaking alien, no matter what Misha says, ok? - likes Misha best or not, but it's the principal of the matter.  
  
“Of course he does. I'm not trying to inflict outdated puritanical body issues on him.”  
  
The little traitor - although, it's actually almost bigger than Misha now when it stands on its hind legs - makes that happy croony-purr noise and rubs its skull against Misha's hand. Jensen's pretty sure Misha's sneaking it sugar cubes or something to get on its good side so it'll eat Jensen first when it finally goes feral.  
  
“Wearing clothes is not a body issue!" It stares at Jensen when his arms flail, that disturbing calculating look like it's filing all of this away for later. "This is why nobody likes gender studies majors.”  
  
“It was a minor.”  
  
This is not the point. Stay on topic, Ackles.  
  
"It has to wear clothes!"  
  
"Why?" Misha counters, infuriatingly reasonable as if this in any way is representative of a reasonable conversation to be having. "You won't even admit that he's chosen a gender, why should he have to cover himself up?"  
  
Jensen is not thinking about that 'chosen a gender' thing. He's not. Although, yeah, he can admit that it has taken a turn in the pointedly male direction with its body type. It's still rocking the Ken-doll look in its nether regions, but that torso definitely does not belong to a chick. Also, maybe they should watch some TV with less built dudes on it - the freaky pod-person thing is not allowed to have better abs than Jensen.  
  
"Because he's starting to look like a person! People do not just walk around naked! And don't pull any of that _native tribes, nudist colony_ bullshit, you know what I mean."  
  
Misha gives him a speculative look, unnervingly like the one the thing keeps sending his way. If Misha hadn't always had a habit of trying to look right into Jensen's soul, he'd swear the mutant was teaching him bad habits. Now he's starting to think it may be the other way around.  
  
"Does he turn you on?" Misha asks simply.  
  
Jensen’s brain sputters, not even able to spit out the words fast enough. "What? No! Ew!"  
  
The look on Misha’s face is far too skeptical for Jensen’s tastes. Clearly he and Misha need to sit down and have a long discussion about what is and is not an appropriate vehicle for sexual attraction. "Then why does it matter if he's naked?"  
  
"Because it's not right!"  
  
The creature looks at Jensen again, twitches its mouth in something close to a smile and turns around from its seat on the floor next to Misha’s feet to wrap its arms around Misha’s middle instead, press its face against his belly. It’s hard to say from this angle, but Jensen would almost swear it batted its eyelashes at him.  
  
Not right does not even begin to cover it.  
  
***  
  
By the end of day 5, it's talking. No, not talking, making sounds. Making sounds that are disquietingly akin to words, but still. It started with random strings of noise, babbling like a baby, and Jensen honestly thought he was going to kill it, just stab it dead with whatever happened to be handiest. Basically it's only the fact that he doesn't know if it has internal organs or anything located in the places he would naturally stab that keeps him from doing it.  
  
He hasn't been sleeping much.  
  
Misha, of course, is perfectly delighted by the whole turn of events, teaching it to say their names and basic nouns and verbs. The curse words Jensen can only assume it's picking up from him because, Christ, _it's learning to talk!_ How fucking creepy is that?  
  
He'd waved off his housekeeper when she showed up yesterday, instead asking her to run down to the store and pick up a couple of pounds of sugar and half a dozen jars of honey. Odds are really freaking high that she thinks Jensen's insane now, but hey, join the club. On the plus side he can always call it a Method technique. People love crazy-ass actors.  
  
The sudden influx of sucrose has made Jared - yes, fine, Jensen's calling it Jared, all of the pronoun usage was getting confusing - very happy. Jensen's not entirely sure that's a good thing, but he's reasoned that a well-fed Jared is a Jared less likely to try and chew Jensen's toes off in his sleep. It might be nice if he didn't express his gratitude by rubbing up against Jensen like a stripper pole. And maybe if that rubbing didn't feel so confusingly good.  
  
Jared is... Alright, look, Jared's hot. Jensen can admit that, he's self-aware and comfortable in his sexuality. Objectively, Jared's almost exactly Jensen's physical type; tall, muscular, hell he has dimples, when the fuck did he develop dimples? He's gorgeous and just far enough off of classically beautiful to be really arresting. If they met at a bar or something - and Jared could do more than just repeat Jensen's name over and over while crooning and trying to crawl into his lap... ok, maybe that last bit would be alright - Jensen would absolutely be into him.  
  
But they didn't meet in a bar. They met when Jared scurried through Jensen's kitchen window looking like something out of Tim Burton's worst nightmare and, Misha may be fine with letting that curl up and snuggle on his side of the bed, Jensen will not be forgetting that fact anytime in the near future. No matter how hot Jared gets.  
  
***  
  
The thin film of sweat all over Jensen’s body has turned sticky, t-shirt and workout pants unpleasantly damp with it when the first blast of air conditioning greets him at the kitchen door. He feels shaky all over, that weak burn that’s going to turn into a full-body ache by tomorrow settling into his limbs. What in the hell had made him think that an action movie was a good idea? The combat training alone is going to kill him.  
  
Even though it’s been weighing on his mind since he walked out the door, there’s still a moment when he walks into the house that he almost forgets there’s a freaky humanoid creature waiting for him. Leaving Misha alone with Jared hadn’t been high on Jensen’s list of things he really wanted to do, but he’d already cancelled two of his training sessions and he’s not about to lose this movie. Also Misha had started giving him The Stare and Jensen’s kind of powerless before the wordless command of those eyes. That, maybe more than anything, is why Misha is the perfect manager for him.  
  
The kitchen looks undisturbed, no blood on the floor or anything to indicate that Jared’s just been biding his time to get one of them alone before he turns into a vicious killing machine. So Misha might possibly have a point about Jensen being too hard on Jared. He hasn’t done anything yet to suggest he’s any more dangerous than a particularly large, energetic puppy. And he is sort of… not sweet, because they don’t even know what species he is and Jensen is not about to classify an ‘it’ as sweet, but well, he’s kind of snuggly and affectionate and he obviously tries to be helpful even if that generally ends in Jensen’s possessions getting broken.  
  
He has this way of looking at Jensen like he hung the moon while Misha was busy pasting up the stars which is rather flattering at the same time that it could very well be a sign that Jared’s psychotic, given that Jensen’s been no more than grudgingly tolerant of Jared’s very existence. He’s just so earnest, so transparent in his desire for approval and there might be some very small, insignificant part of Jensen that responds to that; like watching those goddamn ASPCA commercials with that Sarah McLachlan song. It doesn’t mean anything.  
  
Somewhere deeper in the house he hears a sound like a muffled groan and Jensen’s heart stumbles over a beat and falls flat on its face. He knows that voice. _Misha._ If that fucking thing hurt Misha, getting sliced up in Area 51 will look like a cakewalk.  
  
Jensen’s water bottle hits the tiles with a plastic crackle, shockingly loud in the stillness yet barely audible over the pump of Jensen’s blood. He rushes down the hall, up the stairs, the dampered voice filtering in louder and louder until it’s right in front of him as he bursts through the bedroom door, fists raised.  
  
And starts shouting because really, what the fuck?  
  
"I'm gone for two hours and you go through my porn?"  
  
Jared’s sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed, staring up at the TV like it’s the source of all light and hope in the universe. His shoulders are bracketed by Misha’s knees where he’s lounging on the end of the bed, fingers tangling absently in Jared’s hair. He glances up at Jensen, not even bothering to look embarrassed about his twenty-year-old naked body writhing and moaning under Jensen’s on the television screen.  
  
"He was looking for more DVDs. Maybe you shouldn't keep your personal sextape in a _Hot for Teacher 8_ box,” Misha shrugs. “Speaking of..."  
  
"Naughty schoolgirls is a classic porn trope, there's nothing wrong about making it schoolboys instead."  
  
That gets him The Stare again. "Jensen," Misha says flatly.  
  
"Jensen," Jared echoes, tilting his head to look at Jensen, back at the screen, back at Jensen, assessing. It definitely does not make Jensen blush. It’s just really fucking hot in this room, ok?  
  
"Stop that,” he snaps at Jared, rounds on Misha with, “Look, lay off, ok? It was a good video. And I'm probably never going to be that bendy again, so, you know."  
  
Misha studies him for another long moment then grunts something non-committal, turning his attention back to their college selves just in time to watch Jensen’s cock sink into his ass.  
  
Evidently the surface of the sun relocated to Jensen’s bedroom while he was gone. Maybe he should have somebody come out and see if his heater is malfunctioning.  
  
"Ok, this is weird. The... _Jared_ ” he corrects himself at the displeased twitch of Misha’s eyebrow, “is watching us have sex."  
  
Misha’s fingers comb Jared’s hair back from his face, flutter down the column of his throat and across his collarbone only to circle back up again. Jared settles back further between Misha’s legs and makes one of his happy purring noises, not once ungluing his eyes from where the onscreen Jensen is really starting to pound into Misha, their moans growing steadily louder. "He seems to find it educational."  
  
"That is not the kind of fucking education he needs."  
  
"Well, if he's going to get a _fucking_ education, that's not a bad one." Misha smirks, lightly palming at Jared’s chest the next time his hand snakes low. This is starting to get weird.  
  
Hell, this got weird a week ago, they’re going to have to add a word to the dictionary for what this is starting to get.  
  
"Did you consider maybe stopping him?"  
  
The high-pitched whine Misha’s making on the video is momentarily joined by a chorus of what Jensen can only call growling from Jared. Ok, that’s it, no more Animal Planet.  
  
"He didn't seem particularly keen on that idea.” The shrugging is getting old. “Besides, at least this way he's getting a realistic depiction of sex."  
  
That's kind of debatable. True, it's all real, not like they did a lot of photo retouching off of their damn webcam or anything and there was prep and all so it is, technically, more real than most skin flicks. On the other hand, that had been back when Misha had been trying to get Jensen into yoga and some of the positions they managed to pull off aren't exactly the sort of thing the average person should be trying at home especially not with-  
  
Oh God, now he's thinking about Jared having sex. He doesn't even have a dick, he can't have sex! And how the fuck was that where Jensen’s brain went first? What about _because he's an - not alien - inhuman creature of unknown origin or intent_? That's a really good argument. And yet, nope, Jensen went right to the dick. There's a metaphor for his life.  
  
On the TV, Misha arches his back and moans, a long gut-wrenched thing as his cock spurts hard all over his stomach, a shiny splotch of come catching on his chin. Jensen's not going to rub himself through his pants because he's watching his sex tape with his best friend and a creature that shouldn’t exist, but damn that part always gets to him.  
  
Just like now when his onscreen self is hunching over Misha's chest and stuttering his way through his own orgasm, eyes clamped shut, hands pawing at the sheets and Misha's skin. Fuck, this is why he could never get rid of that damn tape.  
  
They’ve fucked around more than a few times – Misha’s always been a free love kind of guy and Jensen’s always been a ‘likes penises’ kind of guy so it’s worked out well for them both. It’s never been anything serious, mostly, aside from that year and a half after college where they lived in the same apartment and didn’t really date anyone else. Still, there’s something about Misha that’s always held Jensen’s attention the way most of the guys he’s been involved with can’t and he’s realistic enough to admit that he might be a little bit hung up on his best friend in a _never going to happen like that, don’t think about it_ way. So yeah, Jensen kept their sextape, even though it’s stupid and is the kind of thing that comes back to bite celebrities in the ass all the time and he might occasionally masturbate to it and it’s not a big deal, ok? He just kind of preferred it when Misha didn’t know all of that.  
  
And he really, really preferred it when their adopted thingamajig didn’t know about it either. Especially since Jared now has a hand down between his own legs, rubbing thoughtfully at the blank spot where his dick should theoretically be.  
  
Slowly Jared’s eyes fall half lidded, palm flattening out against his skin to push down harder like he’s actually got something to get off with. Short, choppy breaths start to make their way out of his parted lips, head tipping back on a long, neck-baring moan.  
  
Oh Jesus fuck, Jensen’s cock just twitched. He needs to go find somewhere to die of self-loathing now.  
  
God forbid him to ever have a normal reaction, Misha leans forward to run his hands further down Jared’s torso, an almost soothing gesture except for the ‘three shots in’ glaze over his eyes, the slackness of his mouth. He looks turned on as all fuck and it’s really not helping Jensen maintain his composure here at all.  
  
He mumbles something Jensen doesn’t catch or just can’t over the buzz in his ears and presses his lips to Jared’s cheek, the tiniest flash of pink where his tongue darts out to taste and Jared makes a choked noise, tightens up until his toes are curling in the carpet.  
  
The very air feels like it’s vibrating, heat-shimmery and constricting all over Jensen’s body. There’s this sensation like hot barbed wire wrapping around his lungs, slithering down through his stomach to nest in his balls and fuck he doesn’t want to be hard, but he is. He’s thinking about Jared touching himself, getting touched by Misha and he’s so hard he wants to rut against the side of the wall just to get some relief.  
  
Jensen gets distracted from the dazed question of whether Jared can come by Misha letting loose another one of those groans from the tape but this time it’s a live performance, teeth clamped shut and hands spasming on Jared’s skin as his muscles jump, all but bent in half to curl over Jared.  
  
He doesn’t need to see the dark spot on the front of Misha’s pants to work out what just happened, even if the logistics make less than no sense to him at all. No more than the fact that he’s one touch away from going off too, feet away from them and so hot for it he can hardly see straight. It’s like he’s breathing sex, swimming in it, itching inside of his skin with the need to press up against the both of them, touch and be touched, just feel it.  
  
It’s Jared moving his hand that snaps him out of it – three steps closer to the bed than he was just a second ago and no memory of walking – pressing his palm to his thigh instead of between them. There’s a soft mound there now where he used to be perfectly smooth, not really the shape of anything, but enough, a promise, and it’s just terrifyingly strange enough to knock Jensen out of whatever stupor he was caught in.  
  
He nearly tumbles over his own feet in his hurry to back away, every bit of distance seeming to clear his head. His spine slams hard against the doorframe, gives him enough momentum to slip out into the hallway, shouting back over his shoulder, “Pants. From now on he wears pants.”  
  
***  
  
Introducing Jared to porn was clearly a bad idea. In all fairness, Jensen probably could have guessed that before it happened but he didn't get a vote, so oh fucking well. He's gone through every single second of smut Jensen owns now, most of them several times. Jensen thinks he might actual become inured to the sight of cock sometime in the near future. But then every time he thinks that, Jared decides to put their home movie back on - he's still pouting over the fact that no new videos starring them have turned up, no matter how many times he tries to insist 'JensenMisha' to the disks - and proves that, no, Jensen still gets hard just fine, thanks.  
  
The constant reminder of what Misha looks like spread out and speared on his cock really isn't doing anything to make this whole situation less awkward for Jensen. It wasn't exactly a one time thing, they still do it every now and again - sans webcam - but it's hardly a regular occurrence. Misha isn't exactly a relationship kind of guy and while Jensen may be out, dating in Hollywood is no picnic. It's fine, but it's kind of hard to not think about it when it's on Jensen's big screen all the freaking time and they hardly have the kind of privacy to do anything about it.  
  
Then again, he's starting to wonder if the privacy thing would bother Misha all that much. Jared's not Captain Personal Space and while Jensen is starting to reluctantly accept that this is not a battle he's going to win he's not going to just let Jared glom onto him without some kind of protest. Misha, on the other hand, seems to like it.  
  
He gets this soft smile when he and Jared are cuddled up close on the couch, his hands running through Jared's hair, over his skin, or vice versa. Just a little crook of a thing to match the shine of his eyes, not quite glazed, more like lightly buzzed. Jensen gets it, he's becoming more and more aware of the funny sort of happy feeling he gets when he touches Jared for too long like a low level contact high, emphasis on the contact. No good can come of that shit. Not that Misha's ever listened to him about a goddamn thing, especially when it goes against what he wants to do.  
  
Jensen should have called the feds on that thing when he had the chance.  
  
***  
  
The door shutting behind Misha sounds like a jail cell locking.  
  
Realistically, Jensen understands - he may be Misha's only client, but that doesn't mean that the guy has nothing on his plate. The fact that they accidentally adopted a whatever Jared is doesn't mean that life around them suddenly stopped happening.  
  
Still doesn't mean he wants to be stuck here alone with Jared.  
  
Jared who, at the moment, is staring forlornly at the door, bottom lip stuck out a little, eyes all big and puppyish in that way that he's clearly learned tends to get him what he wants. He looks so damn sad that Jensen can't help himself, doesn't even think about it before reaching out and giving him a tentative pat on the shoulder.  
  
"It's ok, he'll come back later," he says to the pleading hazel eyes that turn on him. Why not, it's his own internal mantra at the moment anyway.  
  
Barely a second passes before Jared is scooping him into a hug, big arms around Jensen's back while Jensen's own stick awkwardly in midair, unable to decide what to do. Jared's face buries itself in the curve of Jensen's neck and he makes an unhappy sort of chirp. Still hasn't really perfected the human noises thing, although he’s doing better with short sentences.  
  
"It's... it's alright." His hands settle carefully against Jared's bare back - he's accepted pants well enough even if they are too short and hang obscenely on his hips but he is really not into shirts at all - rubbing lightly over the hot skin. If Jensen wrote a movie about this, no one would ever believe it.  
  
On the plus side, he now at least has a foolproof distraction tactic for Jared. Thank God for honey.  
  
He's not crazy about the position they end up in, him crammed against the arm of the living room sofa with Jared as close as he can possibly be without actually being on top of him. Still, Jared seems to be behaving himself, watching TV with his head pillowed on Jensen's shoulder, squirting little dots of honey onto one fingertip and licking it off over and over. It's a little distracting.  
  
Very distracting when Jared apparently gets bored with the set of commercials that come on and smears the next serving onto Jensen's Adam’s apple.  
  
He's too stunned to do anything about it until Jared's already licking a line up his neck, soft, careful laps that clean the skin and light it up at the same time. It ends with Jared's lips pressed gently against Jensen's chin, a tiny kiss placed there in the center before he mumbles, "Beautiful Jensen."  
  
"Handsome," Jensen corrects automatically. Because he's really awesome at latching on to the most important element of any situation. "Beautiful is for girls."  
  
"Beautiful Jensen," Jared repeats. Really the smirking he could have learned from either of them, but Jensen’s going to blame Misha since he’s the one stuck with a handsy mutant trying to come on to him.  
  
He huffs, puts a hand on Jared’s chest to put a little space between them and ignores the warm fuzzy feeling that zings through him in the wake of that touch. "You think you're cute, don't you?"  
  
Jared smiles full on at that, dimples digging into his cheeks. "You're cute don't you," he parrots back, touching the tip of his nose to Jensen’s, zeroing in on his mouth.  
  
"Ok, no. Not happening.” Jensen tries to get a hand between them to push Jared away again, fails spectacularly when that somehow turns into groping Jared’s peck instead. “I am not having the moves put on me by a- a whatever you are. No."  
  
"Jensen,” Jared whispers like a prayer, “Love you Jensen."  
  
It’s all kinds of screwed up that Jensen sort of wants to congratulate Jared for throwing a pronoun in there.  
  
He goes for stern father figure instead. "And no more rom coms either. _Love you_ does not fix everything." It’d probably come across better if his fingertips weren’t rubbing circles into Jared’s skin. Or if he could manage to sound even half as breathless as he does.  
  
"Love you,” Jared insists, now not so much nearly on top of him as using him as a chair. Impressive considering the amount of body Jared’s working with. “Beautiful Jensen."  
  
There should be a logical progression to it, he should absolutely see it happening, but it's like time skips a beat on him because one second he's just trapped there with Jared in his lap and the next Jared's mouth is pressing against his, slick heat of his tongue wiggling its way inside.  
  
Something weird happens in the space between Jensen's brain and his body because what he means to do is grab Jared's face and shove him off but he only gets as far as the face grabbing which means he's basically holding Jared where he is instead. Which doesn't make any sense, he doesn't think, but it's kind of hard to tell right now.  
  
Jared's tongue feels carbonated, tickly little explosions in his mouth, pouring out along his nerves, and each one is punctuated by a trickle of pleasure seeping into his blood. It's even better when Jared's hands slip under his shirt and that pleasant buzzy feeling he always gets from being skin on skin with Jared intensifies to a twitchy too-good-ness.  
  
This isn't normal, the rational part of his brain keeps yelling at him, but it's so far from being the part that's driving he barely even notices it. He's too busy chasing the leftover sweetness lingering on the roof of Jared's mouth.  
  
Jared kisses with the most bizarre mixture of tenderness and insistence, nibbles and licks that set Jensen’s brain on fire. Low, pleased sounds keep rumbling against Jensen’s lips, slinking down into his lungs on huffed breaths that mellow out in his chest and soothe away the urgency that Jared’s searching fingers stoke. Jensen’s really starting to question what Misha and Jared have been doing that Jared’s managed to pick up so much technique, but he’s not particularly inclined to dwell on it at the moment.  
  
How they end up on the floor is a blur in Jensen’s mind, all of his focus on how Jared’s body feels under his hands, how shamelessly responsive he is to every tiny touch that Jensen ghosts over him. Heat bleeds out to the relentless throb of his cock where Jared is absently grinding against him, just enough contact to have Jensen pawing at Jared’s back, trying to get him closer.  
  
At some point one of them gets his shirt bunched up under his armpits, the stroke of all that bare skin lighting Jensen up, sparks slithering in and coiling around his heart. Eager like he hasn’t been in a long while, Jensen shivers, turns sloppy with Jared’s tongue in his mouth, sucks on it like he’s giving his first blow. He’s tumbling backward down the steep slope of Memory Lane, feeling like a sixteen year old with someone else’s hand on him for the very first time. He could drown in it if he weren’t already drowning in Jared.  
  
Damp heat licks over Jensen’s stomach, registering a second too late and once it does, Jensen has to get a hand down to feel it out for himself. The heft of Jared in his hand, fever-hot and rigid, is the kind of big that begs for descriptors like ‘monster’ and ‘anaconda’. Shouldn’t really be a surprise since he must have extrapolated those bits of his anatomy off of pornos, but still, damn. He’s wet at the tip, enough so that it’s soaked through the pair of Jensen’s sweats he’s been living in, which brooks all sorts of anatomical questions that Jensen honestly does not have the brainpower to deal with right now with Jared’s tongue dipping into the curl of his ear. Fuck, maybe he should make all the guys he gets with watch his sex tape for pointers.  
  
He nearly jumps out of his skin with the dull drum of blood in his ears is cracked by a loud slap next to his head.  
  
Misha stares down at him, entirely too smug to bode well. Jared spares the time to give him a grin before diving back in to suckle distractingly at Jensen’s neck. That’s when he notices exactly what it was that hit the floor next to him and his veins run cold.  
  
Right there in cheap ink and onion-paper, a fuzzy, indistinct photo of something gooey and purplish among a rubble of rocky dirt and the damning headline “Alien Crash Site in the Hollywood Hills: What the Government Doesn’t Want You to Know”.  
  
Misha’s smirk grows to chilling proportions. See, Jensen knew that’s where Jared got it.  
  
“I told you.”  
  
***  
  
“It’s not possible.” If he says it enough times, the picture staring up at him from the kitchen table just might roll over and admit it doesn’t really exist.  
  
“Oh really?” Misha sighs as if he’s just humoring Jensen and also as if he’s getting annoyed with it, “And what alternative explanation would you suggest?”  
  
“It’s the _National Enquirer_ , Misha!” Jensen shakes the now crumpled paper in front of Misha’s face in the vain hope that it will make unreality of the thick red lettering sink in.  
  
Misha just quirks an eyebrow and points to Jared.  
  
Alright, it’s a solid argument.  
  
Before Jensen comes up with a rebuttal, Misha’s wrestling the newsprint out of his hands and stalking over to where Jared has perched himself on the countertop next to the sink. He has his legs tucked in close to his chest like he’s got any shot at all of making himself smaller. Fucked up thing about it is that for all Jensen knows, he could.  
  
Misha holds the paper out in front of Jared, voice soothing when he points to the photo and asks, “Jared, do you recognize this?”  
  
Jared tips his head to one side and then back the other way, examining, thinking. “Egg?” he replies and Jensen’s got a sinking feeling that question mark was more about the word choice.  
  
Dumbly, Jensen mirrors back, “Egg?” on the off chance that he just misheard that.  
  
That thoughtful look passes over Jared’s face again, a line forming in the middle of his forehead before it flattens out again for Jared to nod more firmly, “Egg.”  
  
Misha nods along with him thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”  
  
“In what possible way does that make sense?”  
  
“Well, there are any number of species that metamorphose after they hatch. If an alien race was going to integrate into a planet’s populous, the most reasonable thing for them to do would be to evolve themselves to blend in.”  
  
“So what, you think Jared’s the… the _larvae_ of little green men who want to take over the Earth?” Jensen scoffs, “Pretty sure I turned down a part in that screenplay once.”  
  
Misha’s still busy musing though. “I don’t see any reason why they would need to take over. Humans are the dominant creatures on the planet at the moment, if they can function like us there’s no reason they couldn’t live among us peacefully. He certainly hasn’t seemed inclined to hurt us.”  
  
Jared actually looks offended at that, letting his legs fall loose, feet banging against the cabinets as he reels Misha in against his chest. “Not hurt. Never hurt JensenMisha. Jared safe JensenMisha.”  
  
Misha smiles up at him, all dewy and love struck, corrects, “Protect,” with a gentle hand against Jared’s cheek. As if Jensen needed any further confirmation that somebody here has lost his damn mind. Now the only question is which one of them.  
  
“Protect,” Jared vows. His lips come to rest against the spot between Misha’s eyebrows, slip down to press, light and lingering, against Misha’s.  
  
Jensen would give just about anything at this moment not to know what that feels like, not to have the sense-memory heat of it tingling against his mouth phantom-soft. The rooms is getting hot again, wound-tight like that first time he walked in on Jared and Misha watching that sextape, sensation caressing his skin like he needs a reminder that hardly half an hour ago he was down on the floor with Jared, willing to let him have anything he wanted.  
  
“Great,” Jensen snaps, pissy mainly because he’s not at all. Because he’s fucking horny, ok? And Jared and Misha look way too tempting together. And essentially everything about Jensen’s life at this particular moment makes jumping off a bridge look promising. “That’s awesome. We have a shapeshifting alien protector who wants to have sex with us. Aren’t we just lucky motherfuckers?”  
  
That does at least seem to get Misha’s attention, if not in the way he’d intended. Instead he looks up at Jared again, twists a lock of hair around his finger. “Why us?” he asks curiously, just a passing fancy or some such shit. As if this isn’t the crux of the issue they’ve been dancing around since Jared showed up and decided to stay.  
  
“Jensen love-“ he pulls a strained face and eases into a long ‘s’. Apparently present tense is a bitch. “Misha. Jensen propose. Jared love-s JensenMisha.”  
  
“I did what?” Jensen’s voice comes out a lot louder and higher than he’d care to admit to later. In his defense, he thinks he just got accused of trying to marry an alien.  
  
“Propose?” Jared rolls the word around on his tongue, feeling up the shape of it, then nods to himself, repeats it as a statement. He snags the dishtowel Jensen hasn’t bothered to change out – he’s had a few other things going on – off of the hook by the sink and pets it lovingly. “Propose.”  
  
“I threw a towel at you! That’s not proposing! That’s not even-“  
  
“Propose.” Jared’s glare softens when Jensen fails to come up with any further coherent argument, falls into something more akin to pleading. “Jared good, Jared perfect JensenMisha.”  
  
Ok, so maybe Misha had a point about teaching Jared to talk – it would sure as hell help right now if he could string together more of a sentence.  
  
Jensen looks to Misha. “Care to translate that one too?”  
  
Misha just stands there looking thoughtful for a minute, eyes roving up and down Jared’s body, uncomfortably intimate. Finally he says, “Describe your ideal man, Jensen.”  
  
It doesn’t sound so much like a suggestion as one of those pain in the ass rhetorical bullshit things he pulls where he wants Jensen to find the right answer on his own. Problem is, it works like a charm. Not that Jensen would consider the answer that immediately jumps to mind the right one, but it’s the one that’s there all the same.  
  
He spits, “No,” like the thought hasn’t been living there in the back of his head for a while now, all the puzzle pieces lined up, just not yet fitted into place.  
  
“I’d bet anything he has that’s not on your list is on mine.”  
  
“He couldn’t know that! There’s no way to know that! Not unless he’s a mindreader or… Oh fuck, tell me you can’t read minds.”  
  
Jared looks confused.  
  
“Know.” He touches his palm to the curve of Misha’s neck, says again, “Know.”  
  
Misha just rolls his eyes. “Jensen, could you please attempt to be an adult about this? I know it’s difficult for you, but you are an actor. Just fake it.”  
  
“Be an adult? There’s an alien in my kitchen who’s morphed himself into some messed-up idea of our perfect man and I am the only one here who sees a problem with that? What the fuck is wrong with you?”  
  
“There’s a man in your kitchen who cares so much about you would change literally everything about who he is to try and be what you want and the only thing that matters to you is what he was born. I think the operative question is what’s wrong with you?”  
  
“You’re insane.” Jensen says. It sounds like defeat. “Both of you are completely insane.”  
  
“Possibly. You love us anyway.”  
  
***  
  
Being on location is a lot less fun than it sounds. Usually it means being out in the middle of nowhere, typically somewhere really hot or really cold. There’s almost always bugs or animals and the generators inevitably give out because they’ve only got a $50 million budget, why shouldn’t they operate like an indie barely scraping together funds? It puts him in a shitty mood most of the time and that was all before he had to worry about how Jared would cope with the change of scenery.  
  
The answer is ‘just fine, thanks, please pass the gummy worms’.  
  
And that’s just a little bit annoying too since Jensen has spent the last two months stressing about what he was going to do if Jared flipped out and how they would damage control it and now Jared’s all la-ti-da making friends with the PAs and somebody really needs to teach him the important boundaries between being friendly and flirting anyway, you’re not supposed to touch people that much without knowing them.  
  
Fine. Maybe he does need to switch to decaf. The point stands.  
  
“Mr. Padalecki?” the little brunette intern – Jensen’s certain she’s somebody’s niece – who’s spent way too much time buzzing around to possibly be doing anything useful walks up to Jared. Sheepishly she holds out one of those violently orange Thai tea things Jared’s been sucking down like manna from heaven since they got here.  
  
Dimples all over the place when Jared smiles at her and takes the drink with a bright, “Thank you!” His hand just brushes hers as he does and Jared swears that the sexy-touch thing only works on Jensen and Misha, some kind of mating dance situation, but Jensen still has his suspicions. Not that Jared would probably need any chemical aid to put that Jello-kneed look on the girls face. Still, it’s like molestation. It’s wrong.  
  
Any coughing fit Jensen might happen to break into at that particular moment is completely coincidental and for the intern’s own good.  
  
Jared makes a mournful noise and pets Jensen’s back as he clears his throat, offers him a sip of his drink. It’s cloyingly sweet but Jensen accepts it anyway. Does not feel even the littlest bit smug when the intern finds somewhere else to be, mumbling a quiet, “You’re welcome Mr. Padalecki.”  
  
Also, Misha is never allowed to name anything ever again. Padalecki. Sure, that had been great when Jared was still working out the nuances of the English language, now everybody’s just confused why Jensen’s Polish bodyguard talks with a Texas accent.  
  
The sugary taste of it is still heavy on Jensen’s tongue – a match to the weight of Jared’s hand resting low and none-too-subtle on Jensen’s back – as he climbs the steps to his trailer. Cool air is a blessing even if it’s still as humid as the sticky heat outside.  
  
“Abrams wants to meet about the script when we get back to L.A.” Misha says without looking up from the frantic telegraph-tap his thumbs are beating out on his phone.  
  
He tilts his head up to accept the kiss that Jared lays on him. Finally lets his eyes flutter shut when Jared cups his jaw and refuses to let up until it’s wet enough that Jensen can hear the quiet sound of their mouths meeting.  
  
For a minute Jensen plays at fighting the heat that fan out in his stomach and fattens his dick, but really, what’s the point. He’s slowly making peace with the fact that, fancy alien hormones or just the pure hotness of Misha and Jared, he’s never going to not get hard over the two of them together. He’s pretty sure they both know it too by the way they’re eyeing him now. It’s the kind of look that usually ends with pants on the floor and awkward stains on the upholstery.  
  
They really don’t have that kind of time now but damn if Jensen doesn’t find himself stalking over to the couch anyway, somehow ending up mashed between the two of them, lips on his mouth, trailing down his neck. Not a bad place to be.  
  
He’s not going to pretend that there aren’t still moments where all of this freaks him out and he’s starting to give up on the idea that he’ll ever entirely get over that. Jared’s an alien and no matter how human he gets, that’s never going to change.  
  
There are always going to be things about him that are way out left of normal and there’s always going to be lying involved to keep him safe. There’s always going to be that instinctual spike of fear with the ‘what if’s, doctors, the government, how very very badly this could all go wrong.  
  
But then there’s always going to be this too, him and Misha and Jared, just the three of them and whatever the hell they happen to be, whatever it is about them that makes that work. And maybe that’s not so scary after all. 


End file.
